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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26286745">i am easy to find</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/theknightofdoom/pseuds/feraldavestrider'>feraldavestrider (theknightofdoom)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, Dangan Ronpa 3: The End of 希望ヶ峰学園 | The End of Kibougamine Gakuen | End of Hope's Peak High School, Super Dangan Ronpa 2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>(apart from you chiaki! sorry queen), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Depression, Hinata Hajime and Kamukura Izuru Are Merged, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Post-Canon, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, Temporary Amnesia, Temporary Character Death, again kind of its all super vague bad feelings, also doing character exploration of hajime &amp; his relationship to the cast, as in one person!, both pre and post dr3 anime, buckle in this is gonna be a long one, but not THAT MUCH divergence, esp the survivors of the killing game, kind of theyre like. vague, later on, post sdr2, they remember the game AND being remnants of despair!, this isnt just ship stuff</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 07:34:40</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>13,510</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26286745</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/theknightofdoom/pseuds/feraldavestrider</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p><em> “You’re dead,” he says, and instantly wishes he had just decided to lie back down, turn over, and go back to sleep. </em> </p><p>  <em>“Also true,” nods Komaeda, grin widening. “Are you sure you don’t have a talent, Hinata-kun? I’m starting to believe only the Ultimate Sleuth could put together such astute observations.”</em></p><p><em>“Shut up, just-” Hajime groans, grabbing his hair in frustration. He is so disorientated, so confused, and snarky Komaeda is frankly the most annoying version of the guy to deal with. He’d even take hope-obsessed crazy over this. Well, okay, maybe not, but - “I’m just… what the fuck is going on? Am I losing my mind?” </em> </p><p>  <em>“I don’t know,” replies Komaeda, “are you?”</em><br/>-<br/>After the 5th trial, Hajime is left unmoored, confused, and frankly incredibly depressed. With 3 more days stretching out ahead of them before they will be finally able to leave Jabberwock Island, he doesn't expect to be continually haunted by someone who should be gone for good. Little does he know, he has not seen the last of Nagito Komeada. Not by a long shot.<br/>-<br/>A long fic starting with a canon compliant-ish in-game au and ending with post DR3 exploration and resolution.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Hinata Hajime/Komaeda Nagito</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>161</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. i’m still waiting for you every night with ticker tape</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hello! So, it's be a FAT FUCKING MINUTE since I wrote any fanfiction. Like, at least three years. I absolutely didn't expect it would be finally getting into Danganronpa in goddamn 2020 which would light a fire under my ass, but whatever, here we are. </p><p>I really didn't expect to care about Nagito OR Hajime as much as I do, and I have really specific fic tastes and when I couldn't find something along these lines I was so disappointed... so, here I am. Finally giving in to the 'make the content YOU want to read' shit.  I intend for this to be a pretty long fic, so buckle in! I'm notoriously unreliable, so I can't promise I'll have a great schedule, but I've already written and planned much more of this fic than I expected which bodes well, haha. </p><p>In regards to the actual plot, I'm drawing from both the game and the DR3 anime, although I'm definitely diverging in places. If anything needs clarifying, please let me know!<br/>EDIT: Just realised I should add that I added a day to the Monokuma timer - it doesn't really matter, I just wanted a little more time to play with this idea within the simulation. </p><p>Finally, this fic isn't being beta'ed, so if you find any grammar or typing errors, please forgive me! If you want to point them out, I won't be offended.</p>
    </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>EDIT: 14/10/2020</p><p>came back &amp; proofread the three chapters which are currently up &amp; fixed some grammar errors, typos, and just generally cleaned up the fic a little. nothing too serious but felt like mentioning it. theres a high chance of those chapters still having errors in them, though, bc i had a bad attention span.</p><p>also in hindsight for new readers: just so you know, the suicide/self harm tags are more just to be safe. there is no explicit mentions to self harm or suicide other than talking about canonical events &amp; vague feelings, definitely no explicit depictions of either. just so youre aware! &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p> <em> “Towers to the skies, an academy of lies”<br/>
You never were much of a New Yorker, it wasn’t in your eyes<br/>
If you ever come around this way again<br/>
You’ll see me standing in the sunlight<br/>
In the middle of the street</em></p>
  <p>
    <em>I am easy to find<br/>
I am easy to find</em>
  </p>
  <p><em>There’s a million little battles that I’m never gonna win anyway<br/>
I’m still waiting for you every night with ticker tape, ticker tape </em> </p>
</blockquote>- i am easy to find, the national<p> </p><p>Hajime Hinata does not remember leaving the final trial ground.</p><p>Even if there was a gun to his head, he could not truthfully recall how he got back to his cottage, although he could certainly guess. He could imagine the dreadfully silent elevator ride back up through Monokuma Rock. He could theorise on how he walked back, quiet, numb, cold. While Hajime has no memory of it, he is sure he was pressed shoulder to shoulder with the other survivors, elbows and wrists bumping as they huddled together; he could have easily lied that he remembered trudging with them, funeral procession mute, across the bridge from Central Island with the salt water souring their mouths as the wind whipped in their faces. He would assume they stayed flocked like this, safety in numbers, until they passed the creaking gate into the hotel grounds - at which point each of them would peel away without a word, slinking into their own cottages. It was then, Hajime assumes, he would then have laid down on his bed. 

Without getting undressed, he supposes, considering he is currently fully clothed with his shoes still tied to his feet. </p><p>He should probably care that the soles of his shoes would be leaving streaks of dirt and pockets of gritty sand in his clean linen, but Hajime found it hard to dredge up the energy. What was the use? It hardly mattered at this point. </p><p>He wasn’t sure how long he had been in bed. While he knew a clock was sat a head’s turn away on his bedside table, it seemed pointless to check. He wasn’t even sure what time it was when they left - god, he didn’t even really know what time it was when they went down into the trial grounds, honestly. It was all a blur from midday onwards, starting with the fire and ending with the sunlight slowly draining from Hajime’s silent bedroom. 

He hasn’t even been sleeping, or crying, or thinking, not anything really. Just lying. Time seemed irrelevant, everything just felt… surreal, far too much and yet somehow so far away, behind thick glass which Hajime couldn’t seem to get a grip against when he scrabbles at its surface. </p><p>So he wasn’t bothering to try.<em> Why should I bother? What am I even meant to be doing anymore? Why are we even still here?</em></p><p>It was much easier to just sink into his bed, letting the faux-silence of his breath and the hissing of waves hitting the shore surround him, eyes unfocused and tracing dots of light that float behind his eyeballs. Hajime felt heavy, lethargic, like the air was treacle-dense; it kind of felt like the Funhouse, when he had been so hungry that expending any energy at all felt like a Herculean effort. This time, though, there was no starvation. Just emptiness, hollowness, somewhere aching in his chest. </p><p>Not for the first time in the past however many hours, he wishes he would just cry already. He had, kind of, in the trial; tears had threatened to spill over his waterline when he realised that Chiaki was leading him to revealing her identity as the traitor. They had come back again with a vengeance during her execution,  but they were quiet and short-lived, almost emotionless in his shock. It would be easier if he could just yell and sob, let it all out, much like he had earlier when they had first arrived at this godforsaken island. But no matter how long he lay there, there was nothing. No shouting, no crying; just this terrible static under his skin and an all pervasive exhaustion. </p><p>It was approaching late evening. The sun was slowly setting outside his half-open blinds, the sky becoming honeyed and golden, blushing just slightly at the horizon. 

<em>I wonder if the Monokuma announcement will still play</em>, Hajime thought idly, although he didn’t actually give a shit either way. <em>I should probably check I locked my door</em>, he realises; he always ensured it was secured at night, even if he knew he had done it earlier in the evening. Usually he slept fitfully until he checked again, mind swarmed with paranoid images of someone creeping in - hands pale and slender, eyes glinting steel in the moonlight, hair curling white and weightless around a grinning face which watches as Hajime’s pillow comes down over his face, laughter bubbling up and - honestly, he couldn’t remember if he had locked it earlier at all.  </p><p>He goes to sit up, gripping weakly at his sheets as he tries to swing his torso up from the comforter, fingers scrambling for purchase as he only momentarily manages to elevate his head up before his strength gives out and he thuds back into the mattress. </p><p>“Ah,” he gasps. “Whatever.” </p><p>He could survive one night with his door unlocked. Who is he kidding, anyway? Who the fuck is going to come in and kill him at now? If one of the others wanted him dead, Hajime wasn't sure he could drudge up the effort to give a single shit. All the power to them.</p><p>He stares at the ceiling again, letting his eyes drift, tracing the stripes of red and yellow created from the dying sunlight splashing out across the white drywall. He doesn’t turn on the lamp at his bedside, letting his eyes slowly adjust as the room desaturates and falls steadily darker. Hajime’s lids gradually droop more and more, becoming heavier than his motionless limbs. </p><p>The gaping silence in his mind washes out with unconsciousness.</p><p> </p><p>///</p><p> </p><p>“-ta-kun.”</p><p>“Hrgh,” groans Hajime, mind sluggish and slow, drenched in sleep. He tries to open his eyes, his lashes stuck together with gunky discharge, blinking rapidly into the dark. Is someone talking to him? What time even is it?</p><p>“Hinata-kun, wake up,” comes the voice again, casual tone contrasting the soft and quiet whisper. </p><p>“Wha-?” he mumbles, hands fumbling through the pitch black for the switch to his lamp. It takes him a second, and then it flicks on with a <em>clckt</em>. He blinks even faster than before, eyes stinging with the sudden change of light intensity, moaning sadly as he lifts a hand to shield his face from the glow.</p><p>There is a quiet laugh, quite clearly a rasp at his expense. It sends a jolt through Hajime, and he snaps his head up quickly, his earlier fogginess receding because - that laugh, that chuckle, he’d know it anywhere, it’s so familiar, it’s burnt into his brain and he’s loathe to admit it but he’s not sure he’ll ever forget the sound of that laugh, of -</p><p>“Komaeda?” </p><p>And it is. <em>Holy shit</em>. There he is, Nagito Komaeda, sitting on Hajime's couch, twisted to face the bed as if he had any right or ability to be right where he is. He’s watching Hajime with a smirk twisting his lips, leaning forward, bracing his forearms on his thighs as he watches Hajime stare back in incredulity. </p><p>“Yep! Well done, Hinata-kun, it really is amazing that you have such an impressive control over your mental faculties, you know, considering you’re only a Reserve Course student and all,” replies Komaeda, tilting his head when Hajime flinches back.</p><p>Which, yeah,<em> is</em> a little pathetic, and he instantly feels a flood of embarrassment at the reaction. But in his defense, it <em>is</em> also a bit of a sore spot, and, well, he hadn’t been expecting Komeada to suddenly appear to twist more sharp barbs into it any time soon. </p><p>Hajime decides he won’t give that insult a reply - his pathetic little cringe was bad enough, mincing some kind of rebuttal when he is still only half-awake is sure to make him want to implode with embarrassment.</p><p>“You’re dead,” he says, and instantly wishes he had just decided to lie back down, turn over, and go back to sleep. </p><p>“Also true,” nods Komaeda, grin widening. “Are you sure you don’t have a talent, Hinata-kun? I’m starting to believe only the Ultimate Sleuth could put together such astute observations.”</p><p>“Shut up, just-” Hajime groans, grabbing his hair in frustration. He is so disorientated, so confused, and snarky Komaeda is frankly the most annoying version of the guy to deal with. He’d even take hope-obsessed crazy over this. Well, okay, maybe not, but - “I’m just… what the fuck is going on? Am I losing my mind?” </p><p>“I don’t know,” replies Komaeda, “are you?”</p><p>Hajime stops, takes in a deep breath, sighs slowly. He looks at Komaeda closer. Although it’s hard to tell with the way he’s sat, in the yellow light of his lamp it is clear that there are no visible wounds on the other boy. The former Ultimate Lucky Student seems to notice the close appraisal of Hajime’s eyes and sits back, hands falling down to slink into his jacket pockets, making it even clearer; there is no blood, no tears to fabric, no gaping holes or savage rips in the flesh. He looks perfectly healthy; well, no, he still looks too pale, too thin, sallow and fragile. But he looks unharmed, uninjured, <em>alive</em>. 

Hajime casts around, taking in his room - it’s just as it looked before, when he came back from the trial. The blinds still tilted partially open, now only showing the deep black of midnight. His socks and shoes are still casing his feet, while his jeans and shirt creased and twisted from sleep. 

But Komaeda is sat on his couch. It makes no sense to him.</p><p>“Am I… dreaming?”</p><p>Komaeda doesn’t react for a moment, staring at Hajime, his pale eyes boring deep. Hajime shifts where he’s still half sat-half reclined in bed, deeply uncomfortable, feeling seen, pinned in place. Sometimes, Komaeda is pretty easy to read; sometimes, it’s like he’s a book plucked from the long wall in the library devoted to literature in languages Hajime couldn’t even begin to guess at identifying. Right now, he has no clue what’s going on behind those eyes, his face gently amused at best, revealing nothing. After a short pause that felt like an eternity to Hajime, Komaeda seems to reach a conclusion, humming and breaking eye-contact.</p><p>“That would make the most sense, wouldn’t it?”</p><p>It’s a leading question, Hajime can tell. He’s used to these from Komaeda by now - the deferential, flippant tone he uses, like he doesn’t have a clue what’s going on and really is ready to believe whatever conclusion you come to. As if he isn't already ten steps ahead and dropping little hints along the way. The way his eyes widen slightly, head tilted, finger to his lips in consideration, thinking hard but apparently knowing very little - all a ruse. He used to fall for this easily. </p><p>“That’s not an answer.”</p><p>Komaeda smiles properly, now; wider, less of a smirk or considering little upturn, something much stronger, a little warm, much more similar to the way he used to smile at Hajime back before he entered the Dead Room.  “Guilty as charged! But it’s less fun if I tell you everything straight out, isn’t it?”</p><p>“I don’t know what about any of this is meant to be fun, Komaeda,” he replies, voice tired. Suddenly, he kind of wishes he wasn’t having this conversation. He’s still so tired, so heavy, and he just wants to sink away into his bed.</p><p>Komaeda doesn’t reply, just watches him for a moment, face softening slightly. Hajime is too exhausted to try and figure out what he’s thinking - not that he’s sure he would have been able to if he had tried, anyway. Hajime slumps back onto the bed, no longer propping himself up. He couldn’t bother to see Komaeda’s face anymore, couldn’t bother with this back and forth, with keeping his eyes open. </p><p>He relaxes back into the sheets, warm and only a little perturbed, letting sleep engulf him once more. As he falls into unconsciousness’ open arms, he faintly hears Komaeda’s voice, quiet and far away: “Sleep well, Hinata-kun.”</p><p> </p><p>///</p><p> </p><p>When he next has a coherent thought, it is barely light outside his window. Hajime rolls over, deeply uncomfortable and sweating in his day-old clothes, shirt twisting and grabbing at his chest and neck as he blinks at the alarm clock by his bedside. 5:45 am. In other words, way too fucking early to be awake.</p><p>He sighs, flopping onto his back again, wiping away the sleep from his crusty eyes. He feels gross, probably mostly due to not getting undressed before getting into bed, and he still feels that vicious exhaustion gnawing at his bones. But worse than that, a restlessness has begun to breed in the tips of his fingers and toes, likely because he’s been motionless in bed for far too long. As much as he wishes to roll back over and ignore the first hints of sunlight prodding at his window, Hajime finds the oppressive quiet of his room suddenly overwhelmingly unappealing. He needs to get <em>out</em>. Like, now.</p><p>With another heavy sigh, he slowly manages to sit up, scrubbing his fingernails against his scalp. Hajime’s vision gets fuzzy for a second, blood rushing upward, and he holds himself up as he waits for it to clear. Once he feels grounded again, he swings his feet over the side of the bed. He twists at his jeans and shirt to fit straight, but abandons any attempt to make his clothes look presentable at that point. He avoids catching his own eyes in the mirror across the way through the glass door of the bathroom and leaves.
He hadn’t locked his door last night afterall, he notes idly.</p><p>There isn’t anyone else lingering around on the boardwalk. 

</p>
<p>There’s only the sound of the water beneath the cottages rushing below, Hajime’s breathing, and the creaking the boards make as he strides across them. He is infinitely relieved not to run into someone, which usually would make him feel a <em>little</em> bit guilty to admit to himself, but at the moment he cannot gather the strength to give a shit. He closes the gate to the hotel grounds as softly as he can, aware of the time and that the others are likely still asleep. </p><p>The sky is a soft blue, not as bright as it will be in the day, a speckling of stars still visible above. The horizon is purpling, a sure calling sign of the imminent sunrise.</p><p>Hajime realises, with a jolt of sadness, that he never watched the sunrise here. It seems an odd thing to be sad about, especially considering he usually does not hold the same sentimentality towards the tropical holiday ideal that his other classmates have bemoaned being ruined throughout this nightmare of a school trip. But for some reason, the thought of leaving without having watched it creates a little forlorn feeling in his chest.  </p><p>Deciding not to interrogate that feeling too deeply, he sets off in the direction of the beach. It seems the best place to watch, what with the unfettered view of the horizon. </p><p>Hajime takes his time, still feeling far too distanced from his own body to do anything more than meander down. When he arrives it has become even lighter, the place where the sky and the sea meet blooming with bright orange. He settles down in the middle of the beach, lying with his legs out, propping up his torso with his elbows at his sides so that he can keep his eyes trained on the sun as it slowly bobs out of the ocean and rises above. </p><p>He keeps his head empty, letting his thoughts slide away, just focusing on grounding himself in the world around him. The feeling of sand, itchy and digging into his bare arms. The slight ocean breeze wafting against his face, bringing goosebumps to his skin as it is not yet quite hot enough due to the early morning temperature. The seagulls who circle above, squawking and diving, stark white against the increasingly vivid blue. The sound of the ocean hitting the shore not far from where he lies. </p><p>It was not his intention to fall back asleep, but at some point he must - between his unrestful sleep last night, the unending exhaustion plaguing him, and the fact he hasn’t eaten in approximately a day now (considering the placement of the sun above him in the sky, it's nearing 12pm), it was only to be expected.</p><p>When he drifts back, it’s mostly because of the heat: he’s lying out away from the palm trees, facing the full wrath of the sun above him at midday glare. He groans - for some reason lately waking up has been instantly followed with some kind of noise of discontent - and raises a hand to shield his poor eyes from the bright light. Even with his hands and closed eyelids, his eyes still witness the bright gold glow, and Hajime regrets every decision he’s ever made to lead up to this point in his life. Was seeing a sunrise really worth this?</p><p>He blinks his eyes open, focusing slowly on the back of his hand. And, beyond that, the smiling face of Komaeda, staring down at him. </p><p>“It seems you have begun a habit of sleeping on beaches,” Komaeda notes. He’s leaning down to watch him, eyebrows slightly furrowed in mild concern. White hair flops around his face, curling into his eyes and under his chin, still somehow just a little bit gravity-defying.</p><p>“Ah!-” Hajime jolts in shock, accidentally hitting himself in the face with the hand he had been using as a barricade from the sun. </p><p>“Are you alright, Hinata-kun?”</p><p>Hajime sits up abruptly, head whipping around the beach to see if anyone else is around. When he turns back, having not seen anyone else, the space next to him is empty. There is no Nagito Komaeda on this beach.</p><p>“What the fuck,” Hajime hisses, rubbing his fingers into his eyelids aggressively. </p><p>He casts around again, trying to find some evidence that - well, <em>some evidence of what</em>? That Komaeda was really there? As if imagining him for a second while waking up is somehow less realistic than… what? Resurrection? </p><p><em>This is a massive overaction</em>, he scolds himself. It’s pretty cut and dry: he had a weird dream last night, whatever. It was strange he was dreaming of Komaeda, yeah, but… well, he did just die, and it was pretty traumatic to look at in a way that far exceeds the other corpses he had to investigate on this hellhole island. Hajime shivers, pushing away the invasive image in his mind of Komaeda’s mauled body, covered in blood, face twisted in a final expression of agony.</p><p>And as for what just happened, well. That’s pretty simple too, right? Last night he had a dream, and it came back, he just only remembers the end, just as he gained consciousness. Simple. It’s not even that weird it came back, considering how he was lying on the beach - really, what else was the sun on his face as he lies passed out here going to do but bring back memories with their first real meeting? So. Whatever. </p><p>Shaking his head as if trying to fling all these stupid thoughts out of his mind, Hajime grimaces. If he felt gross last time he woke up, it barely held a candle to his current state. His shirt was going to have massive sweat marks on the armpits, and he could feel sand gritting up any crease in his clothes or shoes that the beach could get its claws into. He’s lucky he doesn’t feel too burnt - god, if he wasn’t careful he could’ve gotten heatstroke. </p><p>Not wasting any time, he scrambles up, trying to shake some of the sand off. He really needs a shower. </p><p>Hajime doesn’t bump into anyone on his walk back. It makes him feel a little odd, his skin prickling and chest constricting. He recalls when leaving his cottage was basically an invitation to be accosted by someone every five minutes, and grits his teeth together. </p><p>When he gets back to the hotel, he can see Owari in the distance, sitting by the edge of the pool with her legs in the water. She’s staring off into the depths, and he has no intention of going over to her, but the sound of the gate closing seems to snap her out of her contemplation. She looks up and catches Hajime’s eyes, and he tries to force out a smile. He’s pretty sure it comes out more like a wobbly flinch, and she offers him a small nod of her head in return, making no effort to call him over. This in and of itself feels notably uncomfortable and wrong, so Hajime just pushes past it, entering his cottage. </p><p>The second his door is shut, he beelines straight for the bathroom, stepping under the shower head attached to the wall. He turns it on, leaving the temperature cold, and closes his eyes as the water cascades over his head, drenching his shirt instantly. He stands there, shivering, as his trousers get heavy and waterlogged, followed by his shoes. Hajime twists the temperature knob, pushing it as cold as it’ll go, the water becoming icy as it slices over his face and gooseflesh arms. He pretends the rivulets running over his cheeks and down his chin are tears as he presses his hands flat palmed against the tiled wall. They keep slipping down the sleek surface, and while his body is wracked with shuddering from the cold, he feels no different. He still doesn’t cry.</p><p>Feeling defeated, Hajime toes off his shoes and kicks them away. Then he peels away his socks, careful not to slip as he does so. Those get flung away, as do his jeans and boxers as he manages to slide out of them. He doesn’t bother to untie his tie, just loosens it and slides it over his head. It joins the other clothing items across the bathroom, and is followed by his shirt, which has gone translucent from the shower water. His fingers fumble on the buttons, numb from the cold water, and it takes at least twice as long to undo as usual. By the end, the tips of his fingers are sore from scrambling against the edges of the plastic. </p><p>Once he’s undressed, Hajime turns the heat back up until steam begins to fill the room, fogging the mirror and glass door. He goes through the motions, scrubbing shampoo through his hair, soaping his body. As he watches sand clog the drain in the middle of the bathroom floor, he sighs, slowly slipping down to sit under the spray. The heat is nicer than the cold. He considers turning it up higher, testing how far the shower water will push its limits of heat, burning his skin with scalding jets. </p><p>But he can’t be bothered. </p><p>He feels so frustrated, like something is missing. Like he’s doing something wrong. Like <em>he’s</em> wrong. Shouldn’t he be feeling something more? More than gaping open, a blackhole, a walking void? He thinks of Chiaki’s face, smiling, eyes closed to hold back tears, as she waves and holds onto Usami’s hand. And it hurts. It really does. He can feel it, pressing against his sternum. But there’s nothing else, just that and the empty heaviness. No tears, no shouting, nothing. </p><p>And even his frustration at that - there’s still not anything. It’s all leading to nothing. </p><p>
  <em>
    <em>“I am so fucked up,” Hajime whispers to himself. The splashing of water on tile is his only reply.</em>
  </em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. crystal clear</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Holy shit, I'm updating! Two days after the first chapter was posted! This is crazy. </p>
<p>I pretty much literally JUST wrote all of this and it is now 9am. Wackass shit. Once again: no beta, so my sleep deprived proofreading may miss some stuff. NGL feel kinda iffy on this chapter, so I may come back to it if I do a reread tomorrow and feel too embarrassed to leave it up as is. Let me know. :)</p>
<p>Added a few tags, most importantly the stuff about suicide &amp; self harm which come into play in this chapter. It's not super explicit stuff, mostly just spacey depressed grief (and I doubt it will ever get more than this in this fic!). But y'know, stay vigilant! Look after yourself.</p>
<p>Decided to reject modernity, embrace tradition &amp; do my cringiest best at putting song lyrics at the beginning of every chapter. No I won't take criticism on this. (Also listen to Hayley Williams' solo stuff it's so good.)</p>
<p>EDIT: 12/10/2020<br/>did clean up on this chapter. nothing huge changed as w/ previous chapter. also i feel like noting my decisions with names are very deliberate even in narration - if hajime uses a first name that is no mistake!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>I remember standing on the edge<br/>
Closing my eyes<br/>
Counting to three, I<br/>
Jump in with the rush in my head<br/>
Only to find, the water was concrete<br/>
And now you're pumpin' air to my lungs<br/>
This don't feel anything like sea can<br/>
In fact no matter how deep I go<br/>
Into you it looks like the water is crystal clear</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>  Crystal clear<br/>
I won't give in to the fear</em>
  </p>
</blockquote>- crystal clear, hayley williams<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>The knock on his door rings out later, once he has dried himself off and changed into a clean set of clothes. He really, <em>really</em> doesn’t want to open it. There is something that has started to sour and rot in his gut and it’s only getting progressively worse. Hajime waits in the silence after the fist has moved away from the door, holding his breath, hoping whoever it is will get the hint and move along. There is a pause, and then another tentative knock.</p>
<p>“Hello?” Sonia calls out, voice hesitant but clear. </p>
<p>Sighing to himself, Hajime walks over and opens the door, trying not to look too irritated by his friend's presence.</p>
<p>"Ah, Hajime! You are home after all,” smiles Sonia kindly, and her eyes are almost as convincing as the pearly grin she offers. “I thought maybe you were not in your cottage…”</p>
<p>“Sorry,” he replies awkwardly, waving a hand as he fishes for an excuse but fails to find one. </p>
<p> “It is quite alright!” says Sonia, seeming rather unruffled. Hajime finally notices what is in her hands - a tray, onto which she has placed a glass of orange juice, a plate of toast, a small serving of butter with a knife, and a banana. His confusion must be clear on his face, because Sonia perks up, lifting the tray slightly. “I noticed that you did not make it to breakfast this morning, nor did you turn up for any lunch! It is important to stay well fed, so I thought I’d bring you a little something.”</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>“Oh,” he says, a little baffled, unsure how to proceed. “Um…”</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>Sonia’s eyes widen, and she looks a little abashed. “Did you already eat? I am very sorry, I should have checked before fetching you food!”</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>“No, no, it’s okay,” Hajime replies, waving his hands. “I haven’t eaten, actually, so…”</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>“Ah,” replies Sonia. While proving her concern was justified, this response did not seem to make Sonia perk back up. Her eyebrows furrow, concern painting her face. “I see. I hope that you are taking care of yourself, Hajime!”</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>“Yeah,” he replies. He scratches the back of his neck and lies through his teeth. “I just… did a lot of sleeping, that’s all. I only just woke up, so I slept through breakfast and lunch.” </em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>“Right,” she says, although her tone betrays the fact she doesn’t truly believe him. “Well, you know that we’re all here for you if you need us, yes?”</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>Hajime sighs, nodding, feeling bad about it but wishing Sonia would leave already. Something about her soft tone and kind words are grating on him, scraping against his skin like nails on chalkboard. He doesn’t need to be coddled, or pitied. Isn’t she grieving herself? Why is she here, making him stand upright and make conversation? She mentioned everyone - did they decide to do this together, thinking he was that much of a failure and a mess that they needed to create a concerted group effort to keep him from imploding? Something about the thought of that makes his stomach churn with acid.</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>“Yeah, sure,” he responds, voice flat.</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>“Right…” Sonia says again, clearly a little uncomfortable with the unfriendly energy Hajime cannot quite manage to contain. She looks down at the tray in her hands, and back at him. “So… do you want the food?”</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>“Yeah, I’ll take it,” Hajime says, about to reach over for the tray. However, before he can, Sonia straightens her back, eyes resolute and head high. She moves forward, steps confident, and crowds into the threshold with an “excuse me!”. Hajime can’t help but move back out of surprise, letting her push her way in - somehow she manages to make her intrusion seem polite, but it still adds to irritation swelling inside him. </em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>“Here,” Sonia says, walking over to place the tray on the small table sat opposite his couch. Hajime is still standing at the door, one hand on the door handle, staring at her. He isn’t sure what to do about this situation. He’d been hoping he could just take the food from her, give his thanks and be done with this interaction, but now he’s in past his depths to even attempt to fail at civility. “Why don’t I stay while you eat? It’s been a few days since we last spent time together, I know last time we hung out we didn’t finish that magazine I was translating from Dutsche about the Canary Killer! I actually brought it with me just in case.” </em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>She continues to talk as she reaches into a little bookbag she had over her shoulder, pulling out the aforementioned magazine alongside a few other items - a few comics, another magazine, and a spiral notebook with corners of photos and sticky-notes poking out of the pages. “I have quite a few notes on this individual - I became quite obsessed with these cases a year ago, so after I read you the summary I could lead you through my thoughts, and see if you have any ideas or theories! I also brought some of the Sun Witch Esper Ito comics, as I know we discussed the show a while ago. Whatever you’d like to do, I’d-”</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>“Sonia, can you just shut up?” </em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>He hadn’t really meant to say it - especially not so loudly, the words bursting out with claws rather than the tired frankness he had been aiming for. Hajime realises his free hand is clenched so tight his knuckles are white, his nails biting viciously into the fatty tissue of his palm. </em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>Sonia looks taken aback, eyes wide. Hajime feels a little bad, or more accurately knows he probably should, or maybe that he will later. For some reason, this just makes him even more annoyed, itching at his skin - because now <em>he’s</em> the asshole, and isn’t that just great? He should probably apologise, but he doesn’t, and not doing so scratches that itch a little, gives him a little swell of nasty satisfaction. </em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>“I-,” she starts, then pauses, then deflates a little. “Hajime, I am aware that this is a difficult time, and if you would rather be alone I will respect your wishes. But it is not healthy to isolate yourself indefinitely, especially if you do not take care of yourself. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t lash out at me when I am only trying to help.”</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>“Honestly, Sonia? It’s not really your business,” he replies, hot fingers shifting in his own sweat where they clench the door handle. “I didn’t ask for you to come and coddle me. I know you need to take care of other people to feel like you’re okay, but that’s not really my problem.”</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>The silence that follows is deafening. It should make his heart sink down to the soles of his feet, the hurt pause heavy and oppressive. But it doesn’t. Hajime stands taller, doubling down. Sonia blinks once, schooling her expression to hide the upset that had resided there for a moment, and turns to begin returning her magazines and notebook to her bag with sharp, precise movement. “I see,” she says. “My apologies for intruding.” She zips her bag curtly, wasting no time in walking back over to the door.</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>She pauses when she comes to stand next to Hajime, face still steely and empty, but her eyes betray her softness, her sadness. “I’m sorry you feel this way. Take care.” With that, she turns away, striding out down the boardwalk towards her own cottage. </em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>Hajime doesn’t bother closing the door after she leaves - he downs the juice in one long gulp, shoves the banana in his pocket, and slathers the butter on the bread, holding it with his teeth as he leaves and shuts his cottage door behind himself. </em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>That restless feeling from this morning has come back with a vengeance, although this time it’s less something vague tingling at his fingertips and toes and more a rash that won’t stop screaming at him. He was already feeling like a pressure cooker, and that conversation with Sonia didn’t help at all; he can’t stand how put together she was acting, as if she was superior to him, as if he needed her help, as if she knew she’d win because he’ll feel so awful about this all later. He knows it’s all a little bit irrational, and that makes it worse. </em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>“Fuck,” he grunts under his breath. He munches on his toast, tearing into it and grinding his molars a little bit more than necessary. Hajime doesn’t really know where he’s going, just that he has to keep moving, has to go <em>somewhere</em>. He loops the island before he’s finished the toast, and he’s tired of the scenery quickly (and, perhaps more importantly, the fact that the likelihood of bumping into one of the others increases a lot by being in close proximity to the hotel), so he turns onto the bridge to the Central Island. He wanders into the park, and stands under the Monokuma Countdown as he finishes the last bite of the bread. It was toasted just how he likes it, which makes him even angrier. </em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>Hajime watches the numbers tick down for a little while, but this does the opposite of making him feel better. They still have three more days before they’re finally free from this fucked up “school trip”, but he finds no comfort in the dwindling numbers. The opposite, actually. He doesn’t trust it, obviously, not one bit - but even more than that, he’s not really sure what he’s going to even <em>do</em> once he gets out of here. </em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>How can he move on from this?</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>Feeling deeply disturbed, he turns from the ticking display, leaving Jabberwock Park not long after entering. He pulls his banana out of his pocket, pressing his thumbnail into the skin lightly, and then harder, more forcefully, until he feels the flesh give way beneath his hand as the tip of his finger presses against the softness inside. He looks up from his fruit torture, realising he was aimlessly looping the island again as he peels the banana and begins to eat it with a similar violence as his toast. There’s a bridge coming up ahead, so he turns onto it, purposefully not looking at the numbered sign above. Maybe the surprise of not knowing where he was going would snuff out this grizzly feeling in his gut. </em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>The sea is churning below, dangerous this far away from the coast when he pauses at the rail midway between his destination and the Central Island, stopping to feel the bite of the wind on his face. There’s definitely no way anyone would be able to swim back to the shore from here, and that was if the current didn’t drag them under. </em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>Then again, Hajime ponders, the bridge rises quite far above the water. He had read somewhere once that jumping into water from a high bridge can be almost identical to jumping from the window of a highrise, so wondering about surviving after making that fall is probably a non-issue.</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p><em>How bad would it hurt</em>, he wonders, eyeing the ripples in the deep blue below.</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>He leans against the handrail, feeling the breeze against his face as he chews. It wouldn’t be hard to climb over the rail, which only reaches up to his chest. It really doesn't do a good job, if it was built to ensure no one could possibly topple over the edge. Then again, maybe that's the point. Hajime raises up to his tiptoes, leaning further over; yeah, he could easily get over this, it wouldn’t-</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>A hand grabs onto his arm, shocking him so much so that he drops what is left of his banana. He spins around as he hears the splash of it hitting the water, heart beating loud in his ears from the surprise.</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>“Didn’t mean to scare you,” apologises Komaeda, who raises his hands up as he smiles sheepishly. </em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>“I-,” Hajime tries, failing to find words. He’s still reeling from being torn from his pretty morbid train of thought that this is a little too much for him to process. “Again?”</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>“I’ve scared you before?” Komaeda tilts his head, curiosity glinting his eyes, even though Hajime is sure he knew full well what he meant. “Well, I suppose that isn’t too surprising. I have been told by many people that my mannerisms and views arecan be terrifying at times, although I’m sure you know that there is no reason to be afraid of little old me!”</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>“I’m awake right now,” Hajime says, pinching himself to verify that fact. “Ow,” he hisses. “Am I tripping? Did Sonia drug my fucking juice?”</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>Komaeda laughs, a hand raising to poorly cover the smile that comes to his face. The wind is stronger on the bridge thanks to the ocean current, and his longer hair fares worse than Hajime’s, blowing into the side of his face and then up away from his scalp. The breeze carries part of his chuckle away with it.</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>“That would be interesting… I must admit, Sonia-san was always one I pinned as the more likely to be a successful blackened! I tried to approach her on the subject more than once, but she didn’t seem interested in working with me.” </em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>“Jesus Christ,” Hajime groans, rubbing at his temples. “Even when you’re fucking dead you just don’t shut up.”</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>Komaeda’s grin dims slightly. “Normally I would apologise for wasting your time with my worthless drivel and thank you for putting up with trash like me, but frankly, Hinata-kun, I am kind of superior to you! So I won’t.” He pauses and then shivers, gripping at himself as if trying to cease the slight tremors. “Haaah- never thought I’d say that…”</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>“You’re so weird,” says Hajime, turning to face the sea again. “If I’m going to hallucinate one of my dead classmates, could it at least be someone who won’t say shit like that?” Hajime looks up to the bright, cloudless sky that stretches out above them. “HELLO?” he yells, opening his arms. “IS ANYONE LISTENING? CAN I BE HAUNTED BY SOMEONE LESS INSANE?”</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>“There is no need to yell, Hinata-kun,” Komaeda says at normal volume, stepping up beside him at the rail. “If you really want me to go away, I can.” </em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>“I do,” he replies bluntly, dropping his arms back down to his side. “I really do.”</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>“Alright,” comes back the reply, although from the corner of his eye he still sees the taller boy as he leans forward over the rail, gazing down at the ocean churning beneath them. “Were you going to do it?”</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>“Huh?” replies Hajime, turning his face to properly look at Komaeda.</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>Komaeda doesn’t reciprocate the gesture, leaning down to rest his chin on where his forearms were heating themsevles on the sun-warmed wood of the handrail. His eyes are still downturned towards the ocean. Hajime realises, and blinks in surprise.</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>“Oh,” he says. “Uh- no, I wasn’t going to do it. I was just looking.” It isn’t really a lie - he didn’t really think about it. Not properly.</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>“I wasn’t sure,” Komaeda replies, still not looking back. “I couldn’t tell.”</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>Hajime swallows. “Well. I wasn’t going to.”</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>“I’m glad.”</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>Komaeda’s voice is sad, and this reignites the irritation that had been welling up since he woke up. “So I don’t need you to come and mother me, either.”</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>At this, the other turns his head, pushing away from the rail to stand straight again. “You were quite rude to Sonia-san earlier,” he says, which isn’t really a reply to what Hajime said at all. </em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>“Whatever.”</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>“Do you not care about her feelings? It seems to me she was performing a kind gesture out of her worry for you.”</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>Hajime grunts, turning from Komaeda and beginning to walk towards the island in the distance once again. He hears the steps of Komaeda hurrying to catch up, and it boils his blood a little at how fast he’s able to do so - it’s so unfair how tall he is, half of his frail body consisting of gangly legs. </em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>“If you don’t want to reply, that’s fine, but this seems to be bothering you. Would talking about it not help?”</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>“There’s nothing to talk about,” Hajime grinds out, eyes trained on the island which is steadily growing larger as they make their approach. </em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>“That seems like a lie.”</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>“Fuck off, Komaeda,” he says. “Can you just go back to being dead and leave me alone?”</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>As he bites this out, he makes out the now more defined destination of the bridge: the final island, plumes of smoke rising from the warehouse and factory, glass and metal buildings rising high and imposing. This makes his words seem like an even harsher slap to Komaeda’s face, and he peers at him in his peripheral vision. The taller does not react, face contemplative. </em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>“Are you glad I’m dead?”</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>Hajime falters for a second, almost tripping over his own feet, but he manages to recover. He steps heavier to cover the stumble, and he tugs at the tip of his tie.</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>“What kind of question is that?”</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>“A rather straight-forward one,” replies Komaeda nonchalantly. “Does the answer make you uncomfortable?”</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>“No!” Hajime replies instantly, defensive. "No, I'm not." But as he fiddles with a loose thread at the seam of his tie, he questions if that’s true: is he glad Komaeda is dead? No. Of course not. He doesn’t want anyone to die, and anyway, if he hadn’t, then Chiaki - but... Well, it's true that he had thought about it before, in passing. He’s pretty sure most of them had at some point: that it’d be easier if he weren’t around. That they’d be safer. Or. Something. </em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>“Hm…” replies Komaeda. “I am.”</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>“Huh?” he starts, once again yanked out of a wandering thought process by the Ultimate Luck. </em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>“I’m glad to be dead,” he offers, tone suggesting that maybe Hajime is a little bit stupid and that Komaeda is dumbing down the conversation for him. </em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>Hajime stops walking, the entrance to the final island looming only a few feet away. Komaeda continues for a step, before turning on his heel to face where Hajime has halted, hands jammed into the pockets of his jacket. </em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>“Are you serious?”</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>“What would I gain from lying?”</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>Hajime laughs humorlessly, gesturing animatedly with his hands in disbelief. “I don’t fucking know! You lie for the hell of it all the time, it’s not that outrageous to think you’d be pulling my leg.”</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>Komaeda shakes his head with a sad little smile. “Heh… I thought you knew me better than that, Hinata-kun,” he sighs, shrugging. “I don’t lie that often, and definitely not without purpose! Come on, you can do better than that, surely. Are you really that disbelieving that I'd be happy to be dead? Did you not pay attention to any of our conversations?” He pauses, then tilts his head to the side, his smile turning from sad to biting, widening with his words. "I suppose I expected to much from you! You aren't an Ultimate, afterall, just a boring, average guy. Guess my motives were too complicated for someone as simple as you to figure out!"</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>“God, I take it back,” he yells, throwing up his hands. “I am glad you’re dead. Hopefully soon I’ll stop seeing your ghost, or whatever this is, and I can live the rest of my life never having to put up with your bullshit ever again!” </em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>With that, he storms ahead, brushing past Komaeda. He doesn’t hear feet falling on the boardwalk, and he resolutely decides not to look back, even as he increasingly feels the urge as he enters the island and begins to make his way further into the scenery. By the time he reaches the food stalls he’s pretty sure he’s alone, so he caves in and quickly shoots a glance over his shoulder. Nothing. He can’t see Komaeda anywhere, not along the pathway nor spot his hair waving in the wind back on the bridge. Good. He’s gone. </em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>Hajime delves deeper into the alley, deeply uncomfortable. Honestly, this was probably the worst island he could’ve come to. While in all Jabberwock was eerie in its abandoned state, something about how large and urban this island was seemed particularly liminal with the lack of citizens or tourists bustling about. </em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>He wanders until finally deciding to sit at a high stool positioned at one of the vendor stalls, peering in at the cold grill and neatly packed away utensils and food items. Swivelling, he leans on one hand, elbow propped on the counter, as he stares out down the street. Closing his eyes, Hajime tries to imagine what it would be like populated; the sizzling of the grills, the clattering of coins dropped on counters, footfalls and orders called out, the inevitable crying children, the rising of laughter above the din.</em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>He can’t seem to make it feel real, but it’s still vivid, and he leans into it - he imagines Nidai, Owari, and Togami (or - whatever his name is) touring through the stalls, buying from every stall and bundling together at a table in order to taste a bit of everything they can, while Hanamura rants on at them on the quality of the dishes. 

Hajime sees Pekoyama and Kuzuryu sharing something sweet, Pekoyama smiling quietly as Kuzuryu argues animatedly with Soda, who is probably trying to plan some kind of wing-man escapade involving Kuzuryu and a hotdog. Then there’s Mioda, who has been trying to decide between five different stands for ten minutes, Tsumiki patiently trying to help her come to a decision even though she had figured out what she wanted almost instantly. Saionji would just be making things harder, egging on Mioda’s uncertainties and delaying the process while she steals food from Koizuimi even though she claimed she wasn’t hungry. 

Meanwhile, Chiaki, Sonia, and Tanaka huddle together over their own food, discussing the lore of some fantasy game, Tanaka making grandiose statements about the ‘accuracy’ of the demon-spawn it features. It would make Chiaki laugh, eyes shining and smile soft, excited that anyone else is interested in hearing her encyclopedic knowledge on the franchise. And Hajime’s here, sat watching them, feeling something warm in his chest, because he never really had friends before, not like this, and he turns to smile as Nagito apologises for how Hajime’s eggroll is burnt a little bit - that’s how it is with luck, only to be expected of such a good day. </em>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <em>Hajime slams his hand down on the counter, pushing himself up and storming back towards the pathway. “AAAAAARGHHHHH,” he yells, because he can. He’s pretty sure no one else is on this island but him, and even if they were, he doesn’t care. He feels robbed. He feels furious. </em>
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    <em>It feels good to yell, so he does it again, and for good measure he pushes at a stall. He expected it to be a lot more sturdy, so when it wobbles he rallies against it, pushing harder until it topples over with a thunderous crash. The utensils and such roll onto the floor, and he blindly kicks at them, panting heavily, seeing nothing. He swings his fists wildly, revelling in the jolts of pain as his hands make contact with wood, banners, anything. He tears down signs, yelling as his voice gets hoarse. </em>
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    <em>“FUCK! FUCK ALL OF THIS!” he screams, feeling like he’s bursting at the very seams. His voice echoes a little, his furious wails yelling back at him and showing their agreement. </em>
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    <em>He carries on like this for a while, just running, screaming, unleashing violence at the very world around him. Hajime doesn’t have a target - he leaves the vendor street and wreaks havoc as he goes. He has a piece of wood from one of the stalls - a broken, splintered thing which will surely leave his hand a wreck - and he swings it at windows opportunistically, revelling in the sound of them shattering. He’s pretty sure this counts as a rule violation: they aren’t allowed to wreck the island property or litter. But Monokuma doesn’t arrive, and Hajime feels a little disappointed, so he just keeps going.</em>
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    <em>He tears apart pamphlets and kicks over chairs in the lobby to Sea King Industries, and makes his way inside to kick apart half-made robots. Oddly, the whole production seems to have paused mid-way, like it was a front which no longer needs to be held up. </em>
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    <em>Hajime expressly does not proceed with caution at the military base. He’s never used a firearm before, so he makes sure they’re not loaded before he uses them to bash in the jeep and helicopter windows. He does unpin a single grenade and throw it as good as his white-bread, ordinary, Reserve Course arm could: sadly, it’s a fake, and nothing happens. </em>
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  <em>
    <em>This only makes him angrier, so he sets course for the next building: the factory, which is still chugging out smoke and an ungodly noise, unlike Sea King Industries. He doesn’t falter, ignoring the door to the warehouse resolutely, and starts tearing apart the Monokuma plushies with a vengeance. He wishes he brought a knife from the military base to make it easier - the plushies are annoyingly well made, and it’s pretty hard to rip them apart. By the time he has a pile of wrecked black and white cotton and fluffy stuffing around his knees, he’s panting hard, sweat sticking his back to his shirt and his hair to his forehead. </em>
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    <em>Hajime finds it hard to catch his breath, his inhale stuttering around - oh. He’s crying. He touches his face, a little in shock, fingers meeting wet, and feels something give within him. He sinks down into the mess of mauled plushies, body wracked with sobs, unable to stop the torrent of tears now that he has spent so much of the energy that had been building up. </em>
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    <em>“T-thank god,” he hiccups, voice weak, grateful for the way grief is bubbling up out of his throat in sad little wails. </em>
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    <em>And, finally, he lets go.</em>
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<a name="section0003"><h2>3. i'm beginning to think i imagined you all along</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>helloooooo! so its been like, um, a month since i updated lol. sorry. i told you im unreliable. but im super proud of this chapter, and i literally wrote and vaguely proofread it all within the span of like four hours instead of studying! go me! its my birthday today, so this was my gift to myself. :)</p><p>i finished binge reading ao3 user zombiekittiez komahina series postscript (https://archiveofourown.org/series/1406809) which i HIGHLY recommend reading if you havent already. it inspired me so much, the writing is godly, for REAL. kicked my ass into gear to continue writing. i def took insp from how they use a lot a literary allusion and quoting in their fics (specifically shakespeare); even before i read that series the past few days i planned on having hajime raid komaeda's bookshelf, but i hadnt decided what he was going to find and how exactly it was going to go until i read that fic honestly. so massive insp from that, check it out!</p><p>anyyyywy, let me know if theres any glaring typos or inconsistencies or anything. if you feel like commenting, def do! it really motivates me, and i have problems with procrastination haha... oh also, if i somehow fucked up my hamlet &amp; metre stuff, PLS FORGIVE ME. i did this basically from memory, LOL</p><p>enjoy :)</p><p>EDIT: 20/10/2020<br/>aforementioned edit. didnt finish it with the others bc i got bored, but ive finished it now. there are a few changes to the dialogue with both fuyuhiko and nagito in this chapter, so yeah might want to reread if you feel so inclined but ud be fine w/o.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>Tell me, where's your hiding place?<br/>
I'm worried I'll forget your face<br/>
And I've asked everyone<br/>
I'm beginning to think I imagined you all along
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    <em></em>
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    <em></em>
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  <p><em>
    I elongated my lift home<br/>
Yeah, I let him go the long way round<br/>
I smelt your scent on the seatbelt<br/>
And kept my shortcuts to myself </em><br/>
</p>
</blockquote>-cornerstore, arctic monkeys<p> </p><p> </p><p>Hajime cries until his head hurts. His nose had been running a lot, but when the tears finally stopped coming his sinuses had long since stuffed themselves uncomfortably, his nostrils a little tacky but dry. He’s got a headache, a low throbbing in his temples, but he welcomes it alongside the stinging of his knuckles and palms. Hajime can feel the splinters in his skin, the pricks on his arms where glass had nicked him, but it grounds him. He feels more real than he has since the trial, and when he wipes at his face with the remains of a tattered Monokuma plushie, he feels something akin to calm settle over him for the first time.</p><p>There’s still a discomfort, a disconnect thinly wrapped around his skin, but the great tension caused as it held back the brewing rage has finally dissipated. <em>For now, at least,</em> Hajime thinks cynically. He’s a little too tired for cynicism right now, though, so he abandons this train of self-flagellatory reflection. </p><p>He stands, wobbling. He feels weak again, although less in an existential way and more in the way that he just put his body through some intense bullshit. Hajime feels a little embarrassed now, in hindsight; he’s lucky no one saw his breakdown, or whatever that outburst was. </p><p>His headache is only spurred on by the noise of the machinery which still pumps onwards, Monokuma after Monokuma stuttering down the conveyor belt towards the huge bucket from which he had supplied his furious attack on plushies. Hajime rubs at his temples, taking a steadying breath. He doesn’t want to be here anymore. It’s time to go back to his cottage, he decides.</p><p>It’s only once the doors to the factory slide shut behind him that he loses his nerve and makes eye contact with the warehouse. It looks no different than any time he had stood before it in the past few days in which he was aware of its existence. The door is fixed from when Owari kicked it open, the hinges no longer wonky. </p><p>He watches it warily for a moment, as if it could grow fangs and bite him. It doesn’t, though, and even though Hajime is tired and sad and his skull is throbbing, something possesses him to turn the handle. He tenses, unsure if he is ready for what is across the threshold.</p><p>The door swings open.</p><p>The room is gutted. </p><p>This is not what Hajime had expected. He isn’t sure what he <em>had</em> expected, in all fairness. Komaeda’s corpse, now completely cold, abandoned without a second thought? An empty space in the wreckage, blood the only marker of where his body had laid? A spotless room, cleaned from gore and charr, restocked to its earlier appearance?</p><p>He steps forwards, the sound of his soles against the perfectly clean tiles ringing out into the cold, cavernous corners of the completely empty space. Hajime isn’t sure what he feels; disappointed? A little, in a morbid way. Relief? Moreso, but it’s bitter in his mouth. </p><p>The curtain is gone with the rest of the soggy, burnt paraphernalia; the rails above his head are unused. There is no red smear on the girder. When Hajime kneels and places a stinging palm to the ground, there is no lingering warmth where a person once took up space. </p><p>When he pulls back, feeling disquited and stilted, he doesn’t turn around for the exit right away. He feels eyes on his back, the heavy sensation of being watched, and if he strains his ears in the ringing silence, maybe even the soft breath of another person. </p><p>“I’m sorry,” says Hajime. He feels sick. </p><p>There is no reply. When he turns, there is no one else in the warehouse. </p><p><br/>
</p><p>///</p><p><br/>
</p><p>When he wakes up, it’s been a few hours. It’s getting darker out; his alarm clock reads 5:56pm. He still feels tired, but not so much that it’s unbearable. Hajime had walked back from the warehouse and final island in a daze not dissimilar from the trip back from the trial the day previous. He didn’t bother showering again, or tending to his minor wounds too much; he plucked out a few of the more obvious splinters, wiped away blood from the cuts that were worse for wear, and called it a night. </p><p><em>At least I got undressed this time,</em> Hajime thinks to himself as he clambers out of bed. His stomach rumbles, and he decides that his avoidance of public spaces and the others ends now. More or less. Sonia was right, he needs to look after himself. </p><p>Sonia. He sighs as he pulls on his clothes, tyinh first his shoelaces and then the tie around his neck methodically, taking comfort in the familiar actions. He knew he would feel bad in hindsight - and he does. He should probably talk to her. But at the same time, the thought still pricks at him with irritation. </p><p>Tomorrow, he decides. He’ll talk to her tomorrow. </p><p>When he sits back, dressed and ready to leave, he looks down at his battered hands and forearms searchingly. He really should probably dress these wounds - he doesn’t have any bandages or plasters, though. Hajime supposes he could ask around, but that would probably mean explaining himself, which… he doesn’t really want to do. He’s probably best just leaving them for now, and after he’s eaten he could venture out to the second island’s pharmacy and take a little look around. Or the hospital, obviously, but he’d rather avoid that place if necessary. It feels far more haunted to him, for whatever reason.</p><p>Maybe he should shower, actually. Who knows what kind of dirt, or, whatever, got into his cuts when he was rampaging on the final island. He doesn’t particularly <em>want</em> a shower right now, and he <em>is</em> hungry, but…</p><p>He’s stalling, he recognises. Hajime hasn’t always been the best at self reflection, or even at being the most honest with himself at the worst of times, but even he can understand the underlying desire for isolation which is leading to his procrastination here. He clenches his hands into fists, feeling a few of the more deeply embedded splinters which he couldn’t easily remove with his fingers sting underneath his flesh. Yes, he’s grieving, but… But so is everyone else. Whatever this is he’s experiencing, it isn’t healthy, and he knows he shouldn’t be cutting himself off like this. </p><p>Not to mention he’s apparently losing his mind, inexplicably seeing Komaeda’s ghost all over the place. Maybe it’s just social deprivation. Or malnutrition. Or a mix of the two. </p><p>Hajime pauses, holds his breath. 

Waits. 

As if Komaeda’s apparition could hear his thoughts and turn up on cue. 

As if Hajime would want that. </p><p>He was there earlier, at the warehouse. He was sure. Or maybe he was just insane. </p><p>Komaeda doesn’t turn up, though. Hajime is relieved and not disappointed by this. His stomach rumbles again, and he is bored of sitting in his room. He locks the door behind him when he leaves, more out of habit than any real worry of a trespasser. </p><p>When he arrives at the restaurant, he finds he has company afterall. Kuzuruyu is sitting at a table at the edge of the room, the one with the wide long open windows peering out to the poolside. </p><p>He looks up when Hajime enters, and nods his head once in acknowledgement before turning back to his food.</p><p>Hajime continues into the kitchen, fetching himself something to eat without thinking too much, lost in the motions of filling the kettle and preparing his instant ramen cup. It’s not much, definitely not the kind of sustenance he’s sure Sonia would be pushing for him to go for, but it’s something. A few minutes later, he walks back into the dining room, cardboard cup warming his hands. </p><p>Kuzuruyu is still eating. Hajime briefly considers the outcome of sitting at a different table, or just silently creeping back down the stairs and heading back to his cottage. But Kuzuruyu keeps his eyes on his food, eyes weighed down with heavy, dark bags, his gaze blank and lost, and Hajime makes up his mind very quickly. </p><p>“Smells good,” Hajime says, sitting opposite the smaller guy. He gestures with his chopsticks at the curry on the plate opposite him as he peels the lid off his cup, steam curling out eagerly. </p><p>“It’s not bad,” replies Kuzuruyu, who uninterestedly pushes a lump of rice around the edge of his plate. “I’m not much of a cook, though.”</p><p>“Better than me,” returns Hajime, banging the chopsticks into the side of the cardboard container as he stirs for emphasis.</p><p>Kuzuryu smiles, but it's weak, a little forced. “Heh, I don’t know how you eat that shit.”</p><p>Hajime shrugs. “I ate them a lot, before… back before I transferred to Hope’s Peak, I mean.” After all, Hope’s Peak doesn’t accept first year high school students; the highly competitive course only runs for two consecutive years, which is why it’s two recruitment requirements are to be a high schooler and, of course, be talented. Not that it mattered, because Hajime was a Reserve Course idiot used for generating revenue. Did the Reserve Course only run for two years, too? He didn’t know. Honestly, he didn’t really care. “I had two part time jobs to pay for the private tutoring I got. My Mom and Dad were pretty busy and I kept weird times because of all that, and when I got back I often couldn’t be bothered to make a proper meal, so…”</p><p>“Huh,” says Kuzuruyu, sounding a little surprised. He looks less checked out, at least, peering at Hajime curiously. “I never pinned you as the type to have tutoring.”</p><p>“I just wanted to be smarter, I guess,” he replies, feeling a little embarrassed. “Do better. I guess it worked for something, since the Reserve Course had such a long waiting listen that it apparently did have challenging entrance exams. At least, that's according to the file Monokuma left with Komaeda...” He trails off, thinking back to Grape House, the sneer on that pale face…</p><p>“Hey, man, listen,” Kuzuruyu starts, putting down his chopsticks on the side of his plate. “Are you alright? I haven’t seen you since the trial, and…” He stops for a second, looking away, face troubled. He worries his lip for a second before he huffs out, turning back with a resolute glint in his eye. “I’m here for you if you needa talk, alright? I know what it’s like to lose someone important to you. After Peko’s trial, I… Well, there was a lotta shit going on with that which doesn’t relate to what you’re going through, but most of all I felt angry. She didn’t deserve to die, y’know?” </p><p>Hajime nods, looking down into his ramen as he twirls it around in the broth. He lets Kuzuruyu continue uninterrupted. </p><p>“Sure, she bashed in Koizumi’s head. And… and as much as I don’t wanna admit it, that was her choice. I have a lotta responsibility there, but so does she. But even so, she didn’t deserve to die. No one did. No one does. I may be yakuza in all the ways that matter, but I was never cut out for it, y’know? I never wanted to lead the clan, my sister and Peko both knew that as well as me, ‘cuz at the end of the day that brutal kinda thinking don't come to me naturally. Two wrongs don’t make a right, and an eye ain’t worth another eye.” He pauses, gnawing on his lip again. While Kuzuruyu had such a boyish face, something in his expression made him look aged, much older than his features should imply. Hajime continues his silence.

“I felt a lot of things after that trial. I felt sad, yeah, but not even that much. Mostly I felt this fucked up rage, I don’t even know who at. At myself. At Peko. At Koizumi, and then all of you guys for figuring it out, and obviously that stupid fuckin' bear... I was mad at everything, I just wanted to tear everything apart." Kuzuruyu pauses again, eyeing the cuts and bruises on Hajime's hands and forearms. "But that quickly gets old, 'cause being angry doesn't change anything, and really it only makes you feel worse. After that, I started feeling super guilty, 'cause it felt shitty that instead of being sad about her death I was just sat in my hospital bed fuming and wishing I wasn't healing so I could go and beat the shit out of someone. And then that guilt got worse, 'cause I knew it that while I couldn't logically just blame myself for Peko's death, not only did I feel responsible for that, but I really <em>was</em> to blame for someone else's. So then I turned that guilt into tryna make it up to you guys, try and be someone worth Peko's sacrifice, y'know?"

Hajime gives Kuzuruyu a sad smile, nodding. "I think she'd be proud of how far you've come," he offers.

Kuzuruyu looks away, a little bashful, a little solemn. "Thanks," he replies. "But that's not my point. My point is, everyone grieves in different ways, and it ain't always pretty or perfect or explainable. This shit's complicated, not to mention the fucked up situation we're in makes everything so much goddamn weirder to make sense of."

"Yeah," says Hajime.

"Later on, once I'd managed to try and turn mosta that guilt into bettering myself," he continues, "I kinda burnt out. Felt like I'd made progress, but what was the point if I was gonna die anyway? And even if I live, she wouldn't actually be around to see it. Found it hard to get outta bed during all that, let alone spend time with anyone." Kuzuruyu now eyes Hajime in a way which seems a little knowing. "It's a fuckin' slog. But I came outta the other side. So will you."

The early evening breeze ruffles the palm trees, rippling the clear teal water of the pool below the window. Hajime stabs at his ramen.

"You don't have to talk about it," Kuzuruyu backpedals, reaching inside his blazer and rustling around the inner pockets. "But just know, you don't gotta justify which feelin's you're having and why and how that makes ya act, not to anyone. Not even yourself. Just try not to take it out on anyone too bad, yeah? And that includes yourself again too, you stupid bastard." He finds what he's looking for: a small packet of bandages and some wound cleanser. Hajime stares at them in the middle of the table. "In case I ever need to sort out my eye again," he explains, pushing them closer to Hajime. He picks them up, feeling a little bit like his eyes might start watering. They don't, though. "Losing someone close to you hurts. Especially when it isn't fair. Try to be fair to yourself, instead. That's my advice."

</p><p>“Right,” says Hajime, a little lost for words. </p><p>“Good talk,” the other finishes gruffly, picking back up his chopsticks and rounding up that rice from earlier.</p><p>Silence stretches out between them for a moment, and Hajime chews on his food alongside Kuzuruyu in the contemplative, companionable quiet. Eventually, he breathes out through his nose, sends a small, sheepish smile his way, and says, “Thanks. I mean it.”</p><p>Kuzuruyu waves off his apology as he finishes swallowing. “Eh, whatever, forget it. It ain’t no big deal to me. Or to anyone else, for that matter. We’re in this shit together, man, we gotta look out for each other.”</p><p>“Still,” says Hajime. </p><p>“Well, you’re welcome. There. Now shut the fuck up and eat your nasty instant ramen.”</p><p>They fall back into silence for a while. Kuzuruyu finishes the last of his food quickly but continues to keep Hajime’s company. Both look out the window, watching the sky steadily become darker as evening falls. After a while, he pushes back his chair and stands, picking up his empty plate and glass.</p><p>“I’m gonna go get some shut-eye,” he says. </p><p>“It’s pretty early,” Hajime notes, eyebrow raised. </p><p>“Yeah,” Kuzuruyu replies, taking his stuff over the kitchen and leaving the door open to talk through it as he makes quick work of the dishes. “Been feeling pretty exhausted lately. I’m just trying to push through it, but I gotta know when to stop sometimes.”</p><p>“Hm,” Hajime replies. He continues to eat his ramen, mind quiet. He feels bad now, for avoiding them; they’re all struggling, and really, they need each other. Kuzuruyu’s words have burrowed deep, surprisingly insightful, and even more surprisingly genuinely comforting. </p><p>When Kuzuruyu leaves the kitchen, plate and glass cleaned, he offers his goodnight in return to the other's. However, just as he finishes down the outside stairs, standing by the pool just below the window, back to Hajime, he can’t help himself. </p><p>“Wait,” he calls, loud enough to be heard but not loud enough to be considered a yell. </p><p>The other turns, looking back up to the window. “What’s up now, you bastard?”</p><p>“What you said… who were you talking about?”</p><p>“Huh?” says Kuzuruyu, eyebrows scrunched in confusion.</p><p>“Your experience with Peko that you compared with mine. Me losing someone close to me. My grieving. Who were you refering to?”</p><p>Kuzuruyu’s eyebrows raise, and then he looks away to where the sun is beginning its descent, thoughtful. “Does it matter? You don’t gotta pick and choose.”</p><p>Hajime doesn’t reply. Kuzuruyu nods once and turns, hands in his trouser pockets as he walks back to his cottage. “See ya tomorrow, Hinata.”</p><p>“Bye,” he replies, too quiet and too late for Kuzuruyu to hear him. </p><p>He finishes his food, cleans his chopsticks, walks back to his cottage. Only, when he’s stood there about to scan his handbook on the reader for the door, he finds his eyes sliding two doors down. It would be locked, obviously. Or, it should be, anyway. Hajime looks up and down the walkway, checking to see if anyone is walking about, peering through cracked open doors; but they’re not. He’s alone. </p><p>Komaeda’s door is unlocked. It swings open easily. Monokuma does not pop up. Komaeda does not step into view. Hajime shuts the door behind him, feeling itchy. </p><p>Unlike the warehouse, nothing has changed here. It is not empty, gutted of any life. It looks just as it did the day he investigated it with -

The day he investigated it for the trial. </p><p>No longer looking for clues, he lets himself just take in the room openly, mind blank, just observing. </p><p>It’s almost as boring as his own.</p><p>He’s been in every single one of the other Ultimate’s cottages by this point - if not let in by them while spending time hanging out, then upon investigating their death. Each of them had taken to vigorously making the space their own; junk relating to their talents, trinkets, posters, excess snack food, extra furniture, you name it. 

Hajime had wondered why they bothered, honestly. His room was almost as empty as the first day he arrived; he had that weird shelf of Monokumas which he dared not mess with, some of the random shit he had gotten from that MonoMono Yachine on the beach, his clothes, and… well, honestly that was mostly it. He had no intention of making the space his own, because it wasn’t. And even if it was… Hajime wasn’t the most interesting of people. He couldn’t even think of what he’d bring to take up the space; he didn’t have guitars to lean against furniture or gaming consoles to cover every surface or photos to line the walls. </p><p><em>Seems Komaeda wasn’t too off the money when he said we were a little similar, huh?</em> Hajime thinks sardonically. </p><p>The room is pretty bare bones other than the bookcase (which was replaced by his Monokuma display in his own room) and the anomalous fridge (which Hajime has now come to believe Komaeda had somehow managed to bring from the Rocketpunch Market without anyone noticing for the sole purpose of storing poison, which is absurd, but also somehow all the more plausible for its absurdity). </p><p>Hajime walks over to Komaeda’s bookshelf, curious. He didn’t fully pay attention to the contents of the shelves last time he rifled through it, focused on finding something relevant to the case, still reeling from the horrifying violence of the Lucky Student’s brutal death. </p><p>He supposes he should feel guilty, or like, gross or something. Being in Komaeda’s room like this, without a real purpose, rifling through his stuff. But he doesn’t, not really. He just feels something hungry, a curiosity he needs to fill as it gapes achingly ravenous within him. </p><p>Reaching into the self at random, he pulls the first book his hand makes contact with. <em>The Tragedy of Hamlet: Prince of Denmark</em>, with an introductory essay almost half as long as the play. 

Hajime opens it, curious; he knew Komaeda was smart and he did often catch him alone with his nose in a book, but he never thought to inquire after his tastes. Did he really read stuff like this in his free time, of his own volition? He cracks it open just as randomly as he picked the text from the shelf. The pages fall just a few shy of the start of Act 3; he is surprised to realise that this text is heavily annotated, highlighted with shorthand scribbled down the margins and around the text in messy pencil. 

He blinks in surprise when his roving eyes catch on a line, and he feels a pang of recognition; Hajime cannot ever recall studying the text, and literature (and certainly not English literature at that) has never been an area he was particularly strong in.</p><p>“‘To be or not to be; that is the question’,” he reads, feeling the familiarity of the words on his tongue. It feels weird to put them back into context when he has only ever heard them referenced in pop culture. He considers carrying on for a moment, but then Komaeda speaks. </p><p>“You put the stress on the <em>‘is’</em>. Interesting,” he says, peering over Hajime’s shoulder. He jumps, again, and feels a little annoyed that he still keeps reacting like this. He briefly considers mentioning the absurdity of Komaeda’s presence once more, but then finds himself tired with repeatedly asking a question he’s sure he won’t get the answer to. Instead, he turns to face Komaeda, genuinely curious. </p><p>“What?”</p><p>Komaeda looks pleased, if not a little surprised, and hums as he walks over to fix how the corner of his bed sheet had been disturbed when Hajime dove underneath the bed to retrieve the gas mask and gloves last time he was here. “Do you know anything about iambic pentameter and traditional English rhythm metric systems?”</p><p>“Um,” says Hajime, blinking. “Not… really? I know Shakespeare writes in iambic, right? And that’s… ten syllables per line?”</p><p>“It’s the pentameter which makes it ten syllables - or five feet - per line, but yes,” replies Komaeda, sounding genuinely somewhat impressed, although still coming off a little patronising in how he does so. Like he did when Hajime knew what the English word for an octagon was. He pauses, considering. “Although, this line is eleven syllables. Don’t worry about that too much, sometimes lines just run a little over! It’s not really relevant to what I was talking about.” 

After this, he turns from fixing the sheet, now sitting on the edge of his bed nonchalantly as he continues on. “Japanese is what linguists call a pitch accent. We accentuate syllables through our pitch, so rising or lowering just on that basis. Meanwhile, English is what is called a stress accent. It is why natives find Japan native speaking English to be a little flat. It sounds cold and impassive to them that we don’t naturally accentuate syllables through increasing volume and length. A iamb is a type of foot, a pair of syllables - first one unstressed, then one stressed. Do you follow?”</p><p>Hajime feels a little overwhelmed for a moment, blinking at Komaeda again, feeling once more incredibly stupid in his presence. It is not an unfamiliar feeling. He looks down at the text in his hands, reading the line once over in his mind.</p><p>“Um… Yeah, I think so? So the <em>‘is’</em> should be stressed, right? Because it’s the eighth syllable of the line, or, er… the stressed half of the… fourth foot? So why is it interesting I stressed it?”</p><p>Komaeda is smiling now, that one that feels real, warm. The one that isn’t crazed or terrifying or cutting; the one he flashed after pulling Haime to his feet when they first met. Something pangs in his chest. “Well, first of all I was impressed with your English, Hinata-kun! For a Reserve Course student, your pronunciation and stressing was surprisingly decent.”</p><p>Hajime sighs, feeling that pang fade away into annoyance. But, oddly, this is not the irritation he felt in Grape House and the subsequent trial; it isn’t sharp, wounded. It’s softer, kinder, almost… fond isn’t the right word. He’s not sure there is a word for it. “Thanks, Komaeda. It means the world to me that you think my Reserve Course English is surprisingly just better than mediocre.”</p><p>“Of course,” he snipes back, grin turning sly for a second. "Although just better than mediocre may be pushing it," he simpers. </p><p>“You were saying?”</p><p>“Right!” He claps his hands together, standing and walking to where Hajime is leaning against the edge of Komaeda’s desk at the bookcase. He leans close, pointing at the line with one of his slender, bony fingers. The translucent skin over his knuckles seems too thin, pulled a little taunt, like it might be cut through by the sharp bones of his delicate fingers if he so much curled a finger a little too tightly. “Well, especially when performed in modern theatre and when taken out of context for pop culture reference, English speaking natives tend to actually put stress on the seventh syllable. ‘To be or not to be: <em>that</em> is the question.’” </p><p>“Huh,” says Hajime, eyebrows furrowed as he looks down at the line. “But… doesn’t that change the meaning?”</p><p>“Exactly!” says Komaeda, leaning in closer. Hajime feels a little overwhelmed, the other so close that he can see his individual eyelashes, thin and fine and so pale they’re almost stark white. His grey-green eyes are clear, wide with mild excitement. “In this scene, Hamlet is considering suicide; whether as a path he is likely to take or as a philosophical conundrum, it doesn’t matter. <em>The Tragedy of Hamlet</em> is thematically obsessed with questions, uncertainties, decisions, actions, mysteries. It makes all the difference to the text to change that line in such a way. Is Hamlet simply stating that the current conundrum on his own mind is suicide and death, as the eighth syllable stress would imply? Or is he confidently asserting the importance of this question of life or death - of accepting suffering or inflicting self-termination - is the most crucial of all the mysteries and uncertainties plaguing humanity?”</p><p>Hajime hums. He looks at the line for a minute. He isn’t quite sure what Komaeda wants him to say next, but for some reason he really doesn’t want to get it wrong. He can feel that steely gaze on his profile, much as he is sure he felt it against his back in the warehouse earlier.</p><p>“I haven’t read the play, so I’m not sure… But, um, seems to me that if the text is already interested in questions and uncertainties, then leaving that up to the performer or reader or whoever is kind of apt,” Hajime says, voice unsure. He doesn’t dare look at Komaeda. “Er. Right?”</p><p>Silence. He turns his head, but Komaeda isn’t there. He whips his head around the room, but there is no sign he was ever there with him aside from the righted corner of his comforter. </p><p>He sighs, hand holding the play drooping slightly. Hajime walks to Komaeda’s bed, perching on the edge just as his mind’s fucked up vision or Komaeda’s ghost or some alien disguised as him or WHATEVER had, page still held open by his thumb. </p><p>While he had earlier noted the way the page was heavily annotated, on second appraisal he notices that the majority of the notes on this page are in fact centered on Hamlet’s soliloquy. He shuts the text, placing it next to him on the bed. Once again hit by another wave of tiredness, he slumps back onto Komaeda’s bed, letting a breath wheeze out of him. </p><p>He rolls to the side, face half buried in the sheets, and strangely wonders if this is what Komaeda smelt like. Did he even sleep in these sheets before he died? How old are they? How frequently did Komaeda do his laundry? Looking at his room, he’s surprisingly tidy; the place is pretty spotless. </p><p>Hajime toes his shoes off and shuffles up the bed so he can lie with his head on the pillows, staring up at the ceiling. It’s odd; it’s close to being like his own bed in his own cottage, but yet still slightly off. He tries to imagine that he is Komaeda; Komaeda before the first trial. Komaeda before the fifth trial. Any Komaeda, really, before or after or inbetween, lying in this bed at night, staring up at this ceiling, head on this pillow. Seeing what he saw, smelling what he smelt - but not being able to find a way to think what he thought, which is what Hajime really wants. </p><p>He does not get possessed by some spirit of Komaeda, or struck by some revelation. The Ultimate Lucky Student remains as much of a mystery as before. He remains just as absent. He remains just as dead. </p><p>Eventually, Hajime gives up. He falls asleep, still failing to feel guilty, or strange, or anything other than still just as hungry with curiosity as before.</p>
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